Dancer's Lament
by Cards and Castles
Summary: When the bell gives its knell, the Undead must heed its call. The Dancer of the Boreal Valley is no exception.
1. Serving as His Eyes

**Jeez, talk about a god damn brick WALL for a writer's block. AND THIS ISN'T EVEN THE STORY I PLANNED ON WRITING. Small little teaser for the night (it's 1 AM and caffeine isn't helping). Still working on Tempered- just rooting out spelling and punctuation errors. WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

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 _Death is irrelevant. Merely a concept tossed around in the minds of mortal men. These Lordseekers- they are not men. They are not even aware of their own curse- the cycle they've stuck themselves into. Or so the legend goes, anyway. Quite a few of them have attempted to past through here- each one even worse off than the last. Pitiful creatures. They should curse their own stupidity. Although.. I am not above giving credit where it is due. They have managed to get this far. For what is an unkindled host, if not a tenacious creature? To slay two of my beasts that wear my altering Eyes- no, make that four- the Vordt of the Boreal Valley and the Outrider Knight posed no threat to a specific vestige of accumulated ashes. The 'Ashen One' as they've been called. Already, this one has defeated Farron's Undead Legion- the Abyss Watchers lay in a dry heap in their swamp. And the Lord of the Profaned Capital has fallen, turned into the rubble that makes his kingdom whole.. I would do well to not underestimate this specific monstrosity._

 _However, let me propose an instance where this Ashen One manages to slay my Lord and I? Would they be relatively unstoppable? Such momentum is not to go unnoticed.. The Souls of the Lords past will surely strengthen them. If Aldrich falls victim to this beast, then what hope would the Holy Prince Lothric have? All Lords mustn't be returned to their thrones. The cycle must be stopped. Lest it begin again, and more needless death occurs. I will make as much Eyes as possible, to award.. Or to force my legions to wear. Normally I would not grant a charity- but I doubt the abilities of the child Lothric and his bumbling brother. I shall send.. A very interesting foe to guard the entrance to that accursed castle. When the Ashen One arrives when the High Priestess summons them for aid- she will slay them both. She will be the blockade invented to stop this forceful momentum. A shame, to be truly honest. To send away my beautiful Dancer. Oh, all is well and fine. I can have another, if I like. Anything is within my grasp. Anything._


	2. Play of Ash and Snow

**UUUUUUUUGEVERYONEJUS'THINKSAHMAYEONEEYEDBLOODYMONSTER ENEAHGGEMEE**

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 _Step._

 _Step._

 _Step._

 _"Prince Lothric is in your hands. Please, save his soul. Tell him what he must be- a Lord.."_

 _..._

 _Scraaaape._

 _Step._

 _Step._

 _Creak. Creak. Creeaeaeaea- THUD._

The unkindled host glanced up towards the blue glow of the cathedral window- shadows playing across the soft light, flickering this way and that. Black, acidic, substance dripped down from a forming abyssal hole- the muffled screams of the swallowed heard within. A flash of silver and blue reflecting off of what little light remained- something thin and large pouring out of the summon in a manner similar to that of a butterfly trying to flee its cocoon.

This was indeed, no butterfly. The humanoid figure collapsed from its sigil of the Abyss- reaching down long, slender arms to catch itself from taking a nosedive into the stone floor. The legs were twice as long- metal kneeguards hitting the ground to create echoes of two loud thuds. A deep, gasp of air was taken in by this massive creature, as if it hadn't breathed in ages. Shadows guarded this massive, slender being- the unkindled vestige unable to see the entirety of it.

The intimidating figure rose barely to its feet- its back hunched as a sword was drawn seemingly from air in its hand- the sleek and decorative blade igniting with a flame that burned bright in the stark contrast of darkness around it. From what the Ashen Host could see, this being was female- or resembled something of that sort. Thin, silver armor guarded the legs and shapely thighs- the same material covering frail looking arms. Embellished patterns of gold embroidered the silver armor- blue silk cascading down thin shoulders, bottomed with small golden lapels. The "crown" as it could be called, was topped with tattered blue cloth- a long, untouched, silken veil flowing down the back and swaying gently with this being's lithe movements. The face was simply shadowed and covered by a black void- unseen through the thin sights of the guard built to the veil and cloth. Black clothing was worn beneath such armor- from head to toe, it would seem. The neck was slightly more elongated than what a human's should be- suggesting a hint towards an Irithyllian descent.

The Unkindled Ash stared at this lithe monstrosity- which had begun to slowly circle them with steps that resounded around the room in a loud echo. These periodic sounds were accompanied by the occasional, deep, intake of breath within a mask that had a darkness to it. They shook their head and focused the royal figure- steeling themselves as they began to circle the hunched being; each awaiting the other to act. And act they did upon a stage of woeful laments- each with their blades dancing in the darkness, spewing their tales through cuts and gashes. One striking with the failure of hundreds of beings that had not the strength to link the flame. The other, an unchallenged sense of rage and despair that knew not where it came- only that it was angry at some sort of something. How convenient for it, that there was a _something_ to take their rage out upon.

Call it a dance of death, of stories, of fate. In the end, whatever the cause or reason, it matters not. What does is the outcome. In another world, in another time, the tall and lithe being would have simply fallen to their knees in utter defeat- dispersing into ash and souls for the Host of Embers to rebuild. But the Fire fades. And as it does, time becomes convoluted- anything could change in any cycle, any manner, and at any time is chooses. The Dancer of the Boreal Valley did not disperse into raw energy to be absorbed. Instead, they were swallowed whole by the very summon that brought them- sinking into a dark hole with no resistance. Leaving the chapel and an incredibly confused Undead behind them.

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 **Yeah, this was short. I rushed the ending too, since I didn't want to drag out the CHEESETHEDANCERWITHTHESWORDMASTERBECAUSEIALWAYSGETFUCKINGGRABATTACKED. *whistle***


	3. Unfit Even to be Cinder

**IT'S HARD TO OVERSTAAAAAAATE MY SATISFACTIOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON**

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There are many events where you could vividly describe the feeling of being cold. In this case, however, there was only the _concept_ of such a feeling. Of being _cold._ The word was so vague in this instance. You could say that you feel _cold_ and that a small shiver would run down your spine, but is there not so much more to it than that? Dead of emotion. Merciless. Without warmth- or in this case, without fire.. The concept of cold only ran through her mind for a fleeting moment. Then, there was only unbridled and quiet rage. A wisp of breath through a thin and spacious visor of a uniquely crafted crown. She shifted faintly in the little space she had- stone walls surrounding her laying form at all angles.

Nobody was around to witness the act of a twenty-something feet tall beast burst out of the massive stone coffin, debris and small chunks of rock scattering about in a shower of dust and overgrowth decay. A blue veil swished with the sudden jerk of long and thin limbs- devoid of any obstructions or discoloration. The armor of the Dancer, however, had seen better days. Covered in rock dust and clumps of dirt, the towering Irithyllian cared not for her state. Both beautiful and terrible; had anyone seen the sudden sight of such a scene, it would be a very traumatic experience.

After a few deep breaths through the visor, the beast begun to slowly raise up on her knees- strength failing her for the moment. After a second of rest she slowly stood straight with little protest, despite her bones and muscles being rather stiff and recovering from such long inactivity. Head hung low and gaze lingering on the ground, she did not care to ask where she was, or how she got here. In fact, she never took notice of the lifeless grey trees and steep hillsides of rock and boulders around her- speckled with many graves of all shapes and sizes, their quantity limitless.

No. She did not even know the _meaning_ of care. The Dancer slowly glanced to the side- her body unmoving, but her unnaturally long neck letting her crane towards a large gap in the stone hills around her. She turned towards it fully, before taking her first step out of the massive sarcophagus. The impending echo of her footstep sounded even here- full of chronic, unsustained, cruelty. Another deep intake of breath. She began to slowly tread down the slope- hunching over a good bit- not entirely, but still angled slightly towards the sky as she walked. Her head peered around the bend of this slope- her footsteps now muffled by the splash and dunking of her boots in shallow water.

She barely heard the snarl. Barely registered it as a threat. Before her, ran a long figure- shriveled and devoid of any sense of purpose one could imagine. It was similar to her, in a way. Both of them, lost and forgott-

 **CRUNCH.**

 **CRACK.**

The thought was easily dismissed as the towering figure slammed the heel of her boot into the mad hollow's sternum- breaking the shallow and weak bone structure into mere fragments as the corpse slammed into the nearby stone- breaking the now mangled body even more. The head cracked and gushed the remnants of crimson blood, splattering the rock and sending red curls of fluid through the now discolored water. A white brush of wind flew from this corpse and into the heart of her being- filling something within her that she couldn't quite place.

But it didn't matter. The Irithyllian monstrosity turned her malevolent gaze towards the left. She saw yet another hollowed being- shrouded in black robes like all the rest, a broken and decrepit sword in its hands. It didn't notice as she walked slowly towards it- only when she was upon it, did the mad creature glance up. It never finished its growl before it was stomped into the ground like a small ant- blood spurting out of the wounds as ribs punctured the lungs and heart, bursting out of the chest to create fountains of red that coated the Dancer's shining footwear. However, something caught her eye beneath the deep black veil that covered her face behind the visor. Shining within the basin of water where the Hollow was leaned against, was a dull grey flask- a little pool of gleaming blue fluid remaining in this container. Unusually compelled, the lithe Dancer slowly picked up this jagged flask. She could see intricate designs, somewhat obscured by jagged crystals.

So dazzling was this item, that the Dancer in fact, decided to keep it. A soft golden glow encompassed the flask as the Dancer cupped it within her hands. Then, in just a moment, it vanished slowly. She lowered her hands from their held motion- no longer concerned about this item. She forgot what it was already. She ignored to paths to her left and right- simply stalking forward in her hunched manner. Yet another Hollow stand before her- pulling back a bolt into a large crossbow within its hands to fire at her. There never was the snap of the bolt flying from its place. Only a sickening crunch as the massive being stomped over it. Another bloody puddle to add to the land.

Trudging through another narrow path, she occasionally pushed herself aside with a hand on the jagged, rocky, hillside. She then slowly stepped up a very narrow incline to reach a cramped outlook upon the world- a pile of ash and bone at her feet with a coiled sword stuck in the center- glowing with a drawing and tantalizing sense of life. Or, so one would expect to feel when met with a bonfire. For her, it brought anxiety and sadness. She quickly turned her gaze away from the glowing embers- wiping the thought from her head as her silently fuming anger returned ten-fold. She now stomped down more narrow paths in between rock structures- crushing and brutalizing any Hollow in her way until she crouched down and had to _crawl_ through a small archway.

A round mourning place greeted her, the outskirts of it dotted with the tombs of the damned and cursed, some broken down by the overgrowth of ashen trees whom's roots acted like veins; curling in the flesh of stone and breaking them apart slowly. White candles, lit by tiny flames glowed across these tombs the grey sky above shrouding their light with its own to make them seem minuscule. In the center broken stone of the ground and dying dirt, surrounded by a shallow ring of water was a hunched guardian. Clad in engraved, heavy, stone plating with a bit of metal here and there. Golden lapels surrounded a blue cloth that clung around the Knight's legs- and in her head, a name was whispered without a trace of whom bled the words into the Dancer's enraged and violent mind.

 _Iudex Gundyr._

A coiled sword stabbed through his sternum halted his movement- the body of the once proud champion but a husk of the mighty warrior it once was. Dead. Gone from this plain of living and undeath. A large halberd was embedded in the cracked ground beside him- just as useless as its master. Coiling black veins shifted faintly on his back- an odd sight, but the Irithyllian cared or noticed not. But she needed a weapon, and her forte was not halberds, but swords. The coiled sword within the deceased guardian was not to her liking- but one could not afford to be _too_ picky. Ripping it out from its place, blood gushed from the hole in the armor- startling the towering creature. The guardian slumped down further into the ground, before growling in anger and annoyance. He reached for the long handle of his halberd immediately, but the Dancer was quick- yanking said weapon from the ground and simply throwing it off the sudden cliffside at the right of the arena.

But not quick enough as to match the sudden speed of a champion angered. A fist flew straight into the chestplate of the woman- sending her flying back a good few yards, the sword falling from her grasp and clattering away. She took a deep intake of breath and slowly stood in her hunched manner- claw shaped gauntlets out at her sides and slightly raised. The light brush of wind let the soft blue veil behind her flow gently with it, the same going for the guardian's lower-coat. He stomped towards her with heavy footfalls- his armor clattering and clinking with each step he took. She began to slowly circle him in a predatory way.

The Dancer of the Boreal Valley and Iudex Gundyr slowly circled each other, admiring the prowess for facing one another. Both feeling the power that radiated off of them- the accumulative power of a thousand failures and woeful ashen dust that is unfit to be even cinder. Both absolutely giddy with excitement, too.

Iudex Gundyr was the first to strike- kneeling faintly before leaping across the battlefield with a loud grunt. His hands balled into one giant fist, he came down like a meteor on the Dancer of the Boreal Valley. However, with grace, she twirled to the side, just narrowly dodging the intense speed and strength that sent rubble and chunks of stone flying in every direction. Now beside the guardian, she delivered a solid slam into the side of his helmet- causing him to yell faintly as his head jerked to the left. But this was not without punishment, as Gundyr steeled his footing and suddenly thrust his weight into his shoulder and right foot- the stone pauldron bashing against the Dancer's visor to cause the large woman to reel back with a quick intake of breath.

His attack did not end there- taking advantage of her backward steps. He thrust his fist out in a solid punch- the blow connecting in the center of the Dancer's chest to resonate with a loud pang as her armor absorbed the dooming hit. She fell back onto her rear as Iudex Gundyr began to slowly approach her once more. Rearing back a fist and beginning to fall to his knees slowly, the Dancer of the Boreal Valley did not sit idly by. She rolled to the side, the stone fist colliding with the dirt ground. She spun her way into a standing motion- now towering above the large champion- dwarfing him in size as she formed both of her hands into a single fist- bringing it down with as much force her weight and gravity would allow. The fist connected with Gundyr's back like a great hammer- forcing him flat on his chest into the dirt and stone with a pined grunt behind his expressionless mask.

The Irithyllian grabbed the guardian's arm- dragging his struggling form for a few steps to build up momentum- and then thrusting him into one of the more solid, large graves. Covered with ashen roots from the grey trees surrounding the arena, was the lid of this massive coffin to the very left of the arena. She grabbed it with both of her hands and pushed off of Iudex's body in front of her- bringing the entire lid down onto his form in a solid smash. The roots cracked like frail twigs, their life having long expired. The stone tablet exploded upon contact with the guardian, whom gave another grunt of anger beneath his solid helm.

Backing up a few long steps, the Dancer of the Boreal Valley hunched over as Iudex Gundyr slowly climbed out of his crumbled mess. He turned towards the Dancer quickly as his body lurched to the side, his fists clenching tightly. He began to flood with black substance that grew spontaneously from the black coils on his back- before an explosion of blood and steel gave birth to a slithering black serpent upon his back- its gaping maw letting out an ear piercing shriek that made the Dancer cringe. Gleaming red eyes sat upon a snake-like facial structure- a large, pulsating black coil of tendrils forming at its back. Iudex Gundyr's left arm mutated into something large and monstrous, three tallons forming at the end of a massive grey claw.

His face and torso were obstructed by this black miasma of accumulative rage, and it suddenly sprung both the champion and itself into the air by the coils of its elongated tail. It jumped at the Dancer in a sudden bout of speed, that she had little time to react- and the claw smashed her straight into the ground like she had done to the Hollows previous. A long, high-pitched, exhale came from the visor of the Dancer's Crown- the serpent purring in content as it recognized the Irithyllian's pain. However, the long leg of the Dancer reeled back beneath the creature- before shooting up and forward with force, shoving the creature and the corrupted Gundyr off of her. IT flung back, but caught itself a few yards away and landed safely. It screeched once more in rage as the Dancer slowly spun upwards. It charged at her, slamming its bulbous head left and right into the ground, sending debris and rubble everywhere.

But the Dancer was no fool and leaped to the side of this beast as it charged towards her. Gundyr swung his mutation towards her- the large claw missing the Irithyllian by a hair as she took three long strides over to the coiled sword. But as she held its handle in her hands, the black serpent reared back on its tail- performing a massive leap as it and its host soared through the air. The Dancer took her time. slow and methodically, she twirled the blade in her hands and lowered herself to a single knee- bracing the hilt of the sword against it as the coil stuck straight up. And, unable to change course through mid-drift, Iudex Gundyr and his serpent impaled themselves directly on it- shattering through the black substance and stone armor beneath. The two gave loud roars that sounded ominous when combined- whilst the Dancer of the Boreal Valley remained utterly quiet and only took a small breath. She shoved the sword's hilt upwards then- forcing Gundyr into the ground and impaling him further as the blade sunk into his chest. She quickly ripped it out as the claw reared back for a strike that never came- the blade now held with two hands as she sunk it deep into the stone helm of the warrior. It smashed through the plating with force, and a solid gush was heard before a faint spurt of blood.

But it was not the claw the beast intended to use, for Gundyr did not control this black death. It's gaping maw bit straight into her left arm- no teeth to pierce the armor that was her skin. But strong muscle deep within that crushed the very bones of her hand and fingers- disforming the armor and smashing a particular, odd, ring on her finger. The Dancer gave a small shriek, then- sounding quiet and breathless as she ripped her battered and broken hand from the maw after two tugs. The serpent fled back within its defeated master- satisfied with death now that it has gotten the very last laugh. Iudex Gundyr slowly began to disintegrate into a grey mist- ash beginning to form at the base of his skull where the sword tip began to ignite. A flickering orange flame formed at the base- heating this coiled sword up in the center of the battlefield, fueled by the ash of the fallen Iudex Gundyr. It traveled up the length of the sword and slowly enveloped the Dancer's hand that gripped the handle of the sword. It washed over her arm- and only her arm, healing her useless hand before flickering out as soon as it came- the burst of it gone.

She collapsed in front of this bonfire as the creaks of a large, brass, door sounded off in the distance. As if it were opening. Her mind fled her. She couldn't remember much. Or anything. In fact. She forgot how to live for just a split moment- and fell into a deep slumber by the gentle, kindling, flame.


	4. Abandoned Thrones for Abandoned Lords

**DON'T MIND US WE'RE JUST HAVING A COOK OFF. WE'RE JUST HAVING A COOK OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOFF!**

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Everything _ached_. Limbs contorting, things ripping, and the sickening crackle of what could have been her bones- or the bonfire. Either way, it didn't make her feel like she was being gutted from the inside out. One would be quite surprised to hear faint whimpers come from the deep void of the Dancer's Crown opposed to the usual huff or deep breath. The giantess weakly tried to rise but only ended up flattening out on her stomach- her armor scraping against stone and the water seeping into the exposed areas of her armor where she could feel it envelop her.. Her flesh?

The realization brought the pain to a dull grumble as she stared at her hand- her breath hitching as she noticed that its size was quite smaller than before. In fact, when he managed the strength to rise on her knees, she noticed that they too, had shrunk. Even more surprising, was that she could actually _think_. Oh, blissful thoughts they were. Even as minuscule as they were, one would cherish the fact that they could comprehend one's self. Instead of a deep desire for battle and bloodshed- so much that it'd devour your soul whole and you'd forget where and who you were. Or something like that. What did she care. She was _free at last!_

The pain was still present, although it was quite bearable now. The Dancer of the Boreal Valley slowly stood up to her tallest height- rising as she once did from the grave that contained her not hours ago. The sky was faintly clouded and incredibly dark- night having set over the world for but a few fleeting moments in time. The bonfire cast a soft orange glow from where it sat- its radius only going so far. The light from the flames danced off of the Irithyllian's armor- creating a gleaming contrast to the black of night. She glanced down at herself. Where she once stood taller than ten men put together, she was now petty in comparison. To a normal man, either would have put him off ease- the new being now standing around eight feet tall- nearly exact. Every piece of her armor still fit and was in wonderful shape- strange, how the world works. Or perhaps, how it falls- if the knell was anything to go by.

The Dancer also noticed that there was little pain in her back aside from her spine being stiff. She could stand straight once more and feel quite fine, instead of her weight dragging her down into a hunch. Her neck had also returned to a more.. Normal state. Although it was still a bit longer than one would think- such is the way she was born. And her form, still lithe and quick as ever- not a pound out of shape, either. She felt strong. Stronger than..

It hit her like a black firebomb straight in the helm. She had no memory. No idea of who she was or what she has done. Or of what she's supposed to be doing, for that matter. Everything was void, no matter how much she tried to push past this fog wall in her head. Fate had truly forsaken her, hadn't it? Finally free of whatever curse she was under- only to be graced with the form of a clueless husk. At _least_ she could derive that in her past life- fate must've not been so kind then, either.

There was no sense in mulling over it now, however. In this odd stretch of grey stone and nameless tombs, she'd find an answer. One just needed to know where to push. She had thought that in a metaphorical sense, but when she began to push the old, heavy, metallic doors at the end of Gundyr's resting place- it became literal. A rush of wind escaped through the sudden passage- fresh, but tainted with the acrid smell of rot and blood as it drifted off of distant cadavers. She had a rather grand view of the snow capped mountain range, their slopes jagged and sharp as they lead down to a misted ground. If it even was a ground. With the elevation she seemed to be at, the Dancer was certain that any contact with the lower ground would turn her width to that of a slip of parchment. Oddly, with that thought, came the abstract and vague memory of the color 'gold'. It went as quickly as it came.

Stalking forward on slow feet, she noticed two, broken, hollows draped in black hues. They paid her no mind until she dared walk past- immediately standing and brandishing their weapons. Having no true way to defend herself, save for her fists (which were rather large if you thought about it)- she chose the more logical option. On lithe legs, she moved with grace- dancing over the field as an arrow soared through the air, searching malevolently for a willing target. It sailed uselessly as the Dancer spun low, graceful in her step. With a few bounding leaps, she was already entering the circular, decrepit, stone building.

Needless to say, the blonde woman dressed in dark, bloodied, hues was only mildly surprised to sense the rather tall and agile figure stalk through the stone arch above- silver armor reflecting the gentle warmth of gracious, orange, flame. The man on the staircase, paid not a glance towards this figure- caring not. For whom dares themselves yet another dogged, Undead, lament? Certainly not him.

The Dancer glared around at her surroundings- turning back faintly to ensure that no Hollowed cadaver had dared following her. Candles littered the stone ledges around the Kiln- the floor littered with dust. Or was it ash? Either or, each mote signified the ancient age of this once grand shrine. Five thrones, each bearing their own personalities sat high above the center of this once Holy place. They are powdered in a thin layer of ash- red sashes that adorned their seats torn and withered.

Similar to the hunched, crippled, and incredibly aged man resting by his lonesome- sunken eyes staring shakily at the unusual Irithillian.

As the Dancer of the Boreal Valley approached this empty bone pile of unfulfilled vestiges, the woman in black spoke gently, although held some form of guidance to it. A distant whisper in the back of the Dancer's mind spoke of some vague memory- though, she could not place it. She daresay that the speech in which this woman spoke had an underlying excitement to it.

"Welcome to the bonfire, Unkindled One. I am a Fire Keeper. I tend to the flame- and tend to thee," She paused for but a single moment in thought,"The Lords have left their thrones, and must be delivered to them.. To this end.. I am at thy side." The Firekeeper murmured softly to the Dancer.

The lithe being stalked around the Firekeeper- a long history of whom they are drowning out any sense of distrust within her. The Firekeeper spoke once more after a moment- staring forward at the pile of bones and ash in the centre of the Kiln.

"Produce the coiled sword at the bonfire. The mark of ash will guide thee to the land of the Lords.. To Lothric. Where the homes of the Lords converge."

Coiled sword.. The twisted blade she left-

 _Damn._


	5. Twas a Wise Choice to Say Most

**SCRATCH THAT! Cheese for no one.**

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The Dancer of the Boreal Valley found herself contemplating the matter of physical travel. In her case, it was not a matter of being too languid to walk to a destination- but the tedious act of having to retrace one's steps. Such a trivial matter like having to walk back to Gundyr's arena shouldn't have sparked such a restless feeling within her. She questioned herself,"How can I move forward if I only move backwards?" Every part of her screamed,"Go ahead!" Not literally screaming, but she felt an anxious pull on her faintly beating heart during the process of retrieving the Coiled Sword. Perhaps this is what it felt to truly be Undead? Herded into some vaguely described, unknown task of linking the 'First Flame'.

Gazing upon the sky of Lothric and being (relatively) free from the constant stench of ash, quelled this feeling. Above, swirled graceful wisps of golden hues and shadowed clouds- an odd color for a sky, but calming nonetheless. She stole this moment away from the world, standing upon the top of a decrepit and overgrown staircase- but alas, she was tugged back down by the distant, raspy, pleas for help and burdening laments. A long exhale sent the hanging blue fabric next to the visor swaying gently. The Irithillian crept down the stairs towards an oddly placed pile of ash and bone- the gentle crackle of the bonfire giving her just a bit more solace in such a desolate place.

Upon lighting the coiled sword within the construct, a gentle warmth flowed through her arm to warm the soul inside- empowering her to continue on immediately, with little time to gather her thoughts. Stalking down the steep staircase to the left of the small encampment, she was greeted by a rather saddening sight. Hollowed men and women sat on withering knees, scrunched up into themselves as they gazed upon the sky- hands clasped together, their small wails sounding little more than quiet screeching. The Dancer imagined, that if they had still the capability, they'd be weeping pitifully for the loss of their Gods' guidance. And the hope that remained, would slowly be crushed. Or, misused.

Frail trees stretched up to the Heaven's above- the branches topped with the frail hands of the Hollowed- the main stalk ending in a skeletal torso, the skull still slightly agape in a silent scream. In hate or fear, who could truly be sure? There was certainly a mix of it around her as she walked with slow steps towards the end of the carved path. Something gave a vicious growl to her right, in which she glanced over just to see the armored, skeletal, Hollow charge forwards with a straight-sword in its hands. It slashed down in an arc- easily avoided by taking a small step to the side. Its entire body hunched over, feet pattering with a few small steps in its bent position. The Dancer gave the softest of breaths as she raised her metal boot- slamming down on the Hollow's back. It sent the frail being smashing into the ground with the force of a falling boulder smashing its spine in multiple places. Thick, faded, blood spurt from its mouth as it gave a small gargle.

The Dancer of the Boreal Valley remained still for a moment as she watched the other Hollows stop their constant praying- before curling up in a fetal position- protecting themselves as they whimpered like kicked wolves. She slowly knelt over- the claws of her gauntlet gingerly picking up the ragged, dirty, straight-sword from the ground and out of the defeated husk's dying grasp. She began to resume her determined gait as an orange light slowly rose over the first step in the downward stairs ahead. Yet another, dogged, Hollow appeared carrying a large lantern, a sword at its side. Upon seeing the Dancer, its gaping jaw opened to an obscenely wide angle- a horrid screech ringing out as it waved the clinking lantern around.

Desperate to save her (metaphorically) bleeding ears, the Irithillian strode forward at an unusual speed for one of her size and stature- before plunging the blade deep into the screaming Undead's chest. She ripped the blade upwards in a ruthless gesture, uncaring for rivers of crimson that began to cascade down the Hollow's clothing. She let it fall down the staircase on its own accord after gently taking the sword from its surprised, frozen, grasp. It stumble down the steps as a few cracks and shatters of bone were heard- the lantern fading out slowly at the bottom of the staircase. A few patterns of dry skin hitting stone made the Dancer take a look at the source behind her. The entirety of the praying Hollows had gotten up from their fearful positions- now deeply angered at the violent ringing in their ears; courtesy of the bloody screech. In their hands, small cutting knives, broken straight-swords, and some having even picked up loose stones.

The Dancer of the Boreal Valley took a few, airy, breaths- the sound both mysterious. One could even assume that her breathing is simply another language- her manner of conveying emotion or thought. No such idea came to the addled and faded minds of the sad citizens of Lothric before her. They simply had an idea. And it was to lurch forward with a myriad of snarls and grunts. With the two swords in her hands, the Dancer gave the most gentle of sighs before leaning forward on one foot- twirling her body just slightly and letting her momentum do the rest. With the grace of a soft artist's paintbrush, she twirled on her feet- never having both on the world below her at once. Despite the gentle swish of air that swept across the Hollow's, her force was not to be questioned. Dancing between the strikes and swipes of thoughtless husks, her blades cut deep within the non-armored foes around her- crimson beginning to fly in all directions as she cut them apart, piece by piece. The fury of silver and blue, the flash of swords gleaming with blood and reflective sunlight; both beautiful and terrible. And like any performance- probably fueled with some sense of passion curled with emotion.

The lithe Irithillian came to a slow stop, swiping the swords in a full circle around her in force of habit. Not that it was necessary- the seven corpses of the opposition littering the ground with flakes and chunks of bloody, rotting, flesh strewn across the ground. After ensuring their were no more sorrowful souls to cast down, she slowly stood once more from her crouched position- posture now hunched over slightly with both blades gripped tightly in her hands. Alert and now incredibly aware of danger, the Dancer of the Boreal Valley wasted no time proceeding down the steps and into the dark chamber below, where her footsteps resounded with a mystic thrum.

* * *

He sat in the corner of the cell with a sense of boredom about him- legs splayed out with an elbow on his knee, and a hand underneath his jaw; pondering how in the world a Hollow knight managed to stuff him in a dank cell.. Hopefully someone would come out soon- he lost track of the days as they bled together and hurdled on by. He didn't even notice the Hood any longer- in fact, he preferred its dark mask upon the world. Everything was so much more gentle to look upon behind a cloak of darkness. Heh- it made sleep come easier, too. He couldn't fathom how ridiculous it must have looked on him. But, one cannot be t-

The resounding echoes of firm metal stomping on stone came from outside the chamber that housed his cell- a quiet, but eerie breathing making way to his attuned ears, even beneath this stuffy Hood. Could it be one of the jailers? No, no. Their footsteps were much more heavy than that- then what in the blazes could..? Ah.. Oh. Now _that_ was an odd sight to behold indeed. Deep, royal, blue with golden trim swayed gently with each step and reflect of _t_ _he brightest_ _silver_ against a lithe, feminine, form. Oh, my.. And a _very tall_ , lithe, feminine form at that. A transparent, ghostly, veil flowed behind this _blodgren_ of mystery. She seemed very out of place in the grim atmosphere around him.. He gave the smallest of hopeful smiles (quite dangerous, in these times) behind the Thrall Hood.

"Aah.. You're no jailer, are you..? No, no, you're from far away- and judging by the bell.. You must be some of that Unkindled Ash.. Remarkable.." He said with an air of amazement, his voice lowering just gently as the tall woman stalked towards his cage- weary and cautious, hunched slightly over. She even had to duck to pass the archway.

"If that's true-" He paused for a moment, before his smile turned slightly apologetic, despite her not being able to see it, a short chuckle weaving itself into the beginning of his next word,"Then I have a favor to ask.. Below the High Wall, there's a musty little town- heh- not the home of any Lord, just uh- a very old settlement of Undead." He paused to take another breath and to see if she was still following his prattle. She was.

"An old woman.. Loretta.. Lives there. Please," He sighed, digging through the hidden pouch beneath his tunic. He produced a brilliant ring made from the finest of silver- a blue, vibrant, tearstone jewel encased in the center of it. He reluctantly offered this ring to the lithe woman through the bars of the cell after crawling towards it on his haunches,"Give her this ring?"

No response came from the estranged giantess other then an airy inhale through what he assumed was the mouth. He took this as a sign of her about to speak- and he feared the immediate response of denial. He spoke rather quickly, stumbling over is words as he began to speak.

"Uh- I-I- I'm not asking for charity, in fa- in fact if you do this for me- I'll be sure to repay you in kind. N- I- I may be a petty thief.. But I've more wits than most royalty.." He said with the faintest of chuckles at his jest of the lording class. After no response came from this woman, he gave a wry smile beneath his Hood, his earlier panic fading away. His tone took on a more gentle and calm air about it.

"What do you say then, hm..?"

The being before him only breathed softly for a few moments before slowly approaching the cage. She knelt slowly down to him- and when he looked up to the odd helm that he now deemed to himself as her 'Crown', he could see not the slightest trace of a face behind a black veil that covered it behind the very spacious visor. Though, a soft series of noises came from it- sounding as if she were having a gentle chuckle in the form of passing air through lips. She gently took the offered ring from him- cradling it in her palm as if it were the most precious thing she owned. She looked down at it for a moment before her other clawed gauntlet produced something rustic.

A key. She had a key. And if his memory served him right, that was _the key to his cell_. He looked back up at her, slightly surprised as she stood and began to unlock the gate- swinging it open as he crawled back. They shared a gaze for a moment before he spoke through the silence- his voice entirely grateful and appreciative than it ever had been since.. Well. He couldn't remember when.

"Very well.. I humbly place my faith in you.. I am Greirat, of the Undead Settlement- and I _,_ " He paused, putting emphasis on the word, putting all the sincerity he could into such a statement," _Promise_ you.. Give that ring to Loretta at the base of the High Wall.. Do your part and.. I'll do mine." He stated truthfully. He never heard or saw a response. Instead, bound to his oath and word, he was whisked away in a flurry of ash to a rather homely, yet borish looking Shrine.

The Firekeeper glanced at him as he appeared- giving him the slightest of kind smiles, and a small bow as he looked upon her. He gave the smallest of hums, and waved to her lightly- before noting how the action might have been useless, due to the thick, intricate and mesmerizing circlet around her eyes. But then again, how would she have seen him in the first place?

 _"Oh, well.. At least she seems nice,"_ He mused to himself as he skittered off to find somewhere to think," _What a strange encounter, hm..?"_

* * *

 **Apparently blodgren isn't an actual word. So, like a cheeky bastard, I damn well replaced 'amalgam' with it. ALSO, TWO UPDATES IN ONE DAY? "I punch those numbers into my calculator, it makes a happy face."**


	6. The Wrong Being

**WanderingSoul96,"Since the Dancer is a descendant of Gwyn, are you planning to use this in the story?"**

 **("Oh, dearest sister..")**

 **Also, what the FUCK. The Dancer's cutscene audio is reversed. And holy shit, the real files are nightmare fuel. In light of this, I started this off a bit quick, and have made some changes to the story later on. I think, for those whom enjoy dark tales, you will be interested.**

* * *

Wrenching the blade from the armored chest of the Knight clad in silver armor before her, the Dancer of the Boreal Valley slowly allowed the corpse to clink and shift downwards amongst the now painted ground. He lay only but a few yards away from his guard-brother; yet another mindless, monotone, patrol ended. After stepping over the corpse, she pondered over the torn cloth that these Knights bore- the sigil made of golden lining rather familiar. She couldn't quite place a time or location on seeing this, but in a past life, perhaps she had been well acquainted with such? It bore no importance for the time being however- more pressing matters beginning to swap over her.

Stepping into the mass chamber housing nothing but old, wooden, seats upon the edges of the cathedral among candelabras, a darkness swept over the lithe woman. And not just by the lack of lighting. In that moment, she felt.. Burdened. Observed. Unsafe, unhinged, disturbed- some horrid amalgam of nightmares, blood curdling screams, and drowned pain originating from the simple sight of the gentle blue glow of the cathedral's ornate stained window above the entrance. The Dancer slowly lowered herself to her knees, blades all but forgotten as they clattered against the solid stone beneath- echoing throughout the occupied chamber. She pressed her gauntlets against the side of her head- curling up into a small ball despite her high stature- trying to muffle and drown out the manic laughter that filled her head.

And, like the brush of wind past an idle flame, the addled memories of the Dancer's mind ceased immediately- with little to no trace that they were even true; leaving behind a rather shaken Irithillian. Her breathing echoed loudly in the chamber, resounding with every deep inhale in forced exhale through the thin visor. A woman at the far end of this chamber spoke whilst sitting her a wooden chair- her voice old, ragged, and withered. But it carried an inquisitive tone that forced the Dancer into a bitter state of mind.

 _"Often times, the largest challenges we face are our own judgement. What say you, Unkindled?"_


	7. Poor Choice of Judgement

**What a month(s)! My hours are changed at work to be quite late. At least, I received a large raise in pay (although I'd rather be sleeping to be quite honest). Really, though, there's not an excuse for a terribly overdue chapter.**

 **"As those in Ancient Greek a doing a say,'Magnum Opus, as ot shall be yours.'" - r.i.p lazypurple**

* * *

 _She hated them._

 _She hated them so much, it made her heart quiver in her chest, swelling with laughter that burst into her mouth and past her lips. What a **sick** joke, it was. Ousted from the Kingdom of Gods in command of some false prophet, under decree of the Darkmoon, which had become tainted and corrupt. The Godling lay ill on his bedside, stuck dreaming of horrors that came from some vague, unseen threat- the Captain, just as useless, secretly locked away within the Tower. And all that remained, was her. She held the throne for the time, the last defense against Corruption._

 _The Heir of Irithyll, last capable soul of her line. But He deemed her unworthy. Unworthy, uneducated, **unfaithful**. And the people, held at the crescent blades and scythes of His vanguard, lowered their heads and silently agreed. If the Heir refused to accept this 'decreed impeachment by the people,' then what other option would He take than to storm the grounds of Anor Londo with His horrid Knights and lay waste to the weak Darksun and Captain? Of her beloved and ever faithful Silver Knights? Her home? No. No, she could not allow that. There was no choice, but to accept and step down._

 _But that wasn't enough. Unless she complied to His whim and did as He pleased, He would lay waste to it all anyway. So, in an act of 'faith' she became of His repentance, standing by His side in nothing more than a show for the people of Irithyll. Gifted twinblades that were much like His own, she was made an honorary Outrider Knight. Constantly prancing about in the swamp of politics, she remained silent and said nothing. Agreed. Became the puppet to buy the God City more time._

 _It is never enough. Unable to be used in actual shows of force due to her placement in the public eye, the faux-Knight served a more entertaining purpose. The title of Heir was lost, and the title of Dancer was gained. Sermons, rants, speeches, frivolous parties to maintain His good stature with the fool boy and his wretched kingdom- it mattered not the occasion, but He would show His strength. He would make the now-Dancer Heir entertain His guests._ _With every graceful glide, arc of her back, swirl of her figure, came a threat. Not even a child born of Gods would stand in His way. And if she had failed to get the point across, He would have His other personal guardian spar with her._

 _The Vordt would heed this call, and he would win each and every time- her armor dented by his cleave, some parts of her badly cut and bruised. He couldn't risk holding back- this, she did not hold against him._

 _The Outrider Knight, was not a violent man outside of combat. Whenever He dismissed them after a particularly long match, the Vordt carried her within his arms when they were out of sight- to his own abode. He would take it upon himself to bang the dents of her armor back in that he himself had made. He would readorn and realign the golden trim, ensure that it was polished and clean for the next outing. The Vordt would softly ask for her arms, to attempt to heal the minor damage that he had caused._

 _Despite their almost scandalous relationship, it had never escalated beyond a very tight and strong friendship. Neither one could ask for much more than the other's silent company. He was not quite educated in the way most Irithyllians were- he understood the basics of language and calligraphy, but struggled with advanced studies and complex structuring. And she, was less inclined to swing her blade in a warrior's stance and had a terrible posture that had him groaning every training session. They exchanged. Knowledge for battle prowess._

 _The Dancer did not understand and was not built for his own personalized, bludgeoning, style of fighting. She couldn't wield her twinblades in an intimidating stance. The Vordt, however, was a patient man. They tried many things- different weapons, styles from differing kingdoms, sorcery- nothing seemed to work. He pondered on this for some time. And one night, after a particularly uneventful day, he asked her to dance with him._

 _The Vordt had never heard such a sound more beautiful than the Dancer's laughter. Not the mad laughter she'd express when angry, not the hollow huff at nobility parties, or the forced strain when addressing others. But the hearted, gentle, melodic sound drifting from a face he would probably never see behind a beautiful Crown. She had agreed. The Dancer was quite amused- the bulkish man in his robust armor not built for such a task. She'd give a soft chuckle each time he managed to step on her armored feet and toes. He'd do it on purpose every now and then just to hear that lifting noise._

 _Where she was grinding in battle, she was graceful when dancing. And that's where he had an idea. Instead of forcing frantic, fast, and off-paced Outrider training on her, he opted in her dancing in their sparring matches. She only need his instruction on how to twirl, grip, and properly hold her blades. The rest, was up to her. And by Gods, was he stunned. Weave this way, weave that way, spin around the blade and grace her footsteps around the target.._

 _When she beat him in a forced match by His hand and the Vordt lay in a heap of armor and panting metal, that was when he decided that he would remain at her side._

 _So when the time came, many, many years later, when He sent her to guard the Prince in the wake of Hollow uprising, he had nearly begged to accompany her. And after convincing Him of the use of having not one, but two Outrider Knights protecting the Prince.. With the rings on their fingers, walking so close to one another, it was close enough._

 _For the Dancer, however, she couldn't have felt more despair. Ousted. Exiled. Vilified. That's what it felt like- what it always felt like. Denied her birth right. Denied her claim. Her obligations! Her **kingdom!** Humiliated, walking through the streets, earning distant glares and especially frigid postures. Nobody clapped for the supposed,"noble deed," that He had said she took upon her own shoulders. No, they simply watched. And she cursed herself for trying to give them what she could not give herself whilst upon the seat of power._

 _A poor sense of judgement, on her part._

 _Especially when the limbs started growing._


	8. Blind, and Still Cannot See

**HELLO?**

* * *

Greirat gave a drawn huff as he gazed around the Firelink Shrine with an unimpressed gaze. He enjoyed the little candles strewn about the place- the smell of ash and blood had grown quite drab and almost sickening. The sweet aroma of the burning incense was soft on the nose. Or at least, it was to him (even if he could still smell ash). His sense of smell wasn't too acute- not as much as his perception of sound. He walked on his haunches and hands, slowly surveying the place- never once considering how odd he may have looked. Gazing upon the high set thrones, cast in deep stone and red velvet, Greirat couldn't help feeling a bit smaller than he actually was. A gentle voice startled him out of his thought.

"Hast thou run astray, Thrall of the High Wall?" The Firekeeper spoke by Greirat's side, hands placed near her chest in a prayer-like stance. He couldn't help but watch as the 'Crown' she wore over her eyes glittered and flashed with each flicker of the flames around them.

"Ah! Oh.. P-Pardon me. You startled me for a moment, there.." He spoke, giving a relieved sigh at noting her peaceful nature at the moment.

He shifted only faintly to see her face. She was most certainly easy on the eyes- a sharp jaw, but the rest of her smooth features were round and particularly pale. Her blonde hair cascaded down her back in an intricately styled (tangled) braid that reached quite a ways down the expanse of her back. She gave no response to his question, before it dawned upon him.

"Oh, no, no, I'm not lost. I have a keen sense of direction- even if I lack the full use of my sight.." He mumbled, lifting an arm to scratch the side of his head through the dusty little thing he called a hood,"Although I do admit.. I don't quite know where I am."

The Firekeeper continued to speak in her gentle tone, now lowering her hands and turning towards him fully. Her blind gaze settled upon him as she held her hands in front of her.

"Then, may I trouble thee with an odd inquiry? Why doth thou tread here, within the Firelink Shrine?"

"Firelink Shrine, eh? Well, fancy that.. I was right. About the Unkindled, that is. I made a.. Bargain, with her." He chuckled near the end, before giving a worried sigh,"I do hope they hold their end.."

The platinum blonde remained silent for a long while. He almost thought she had been ignoring him, if not for the soft tone she spoke in next,"If thou doth not know where one stands, is that not joined with being lost?"

Greirat considered this for a second, before turning to face her fully. He sat down with a small huff- placing his feet flat against one another as he rested his hands upon his ankles. The Keeper awaited his response patiently- though her 'gaze' had returned towards the bonfire located in the center of the Shrine- enthralled by its flicker. Her conscience was soon brought back by the small chuckle laced between smoothly spoken words of the questioned Thief.

"I'll have to ponder on that for awhile. What an odd question.." He took a deep breath and held it for a moment- smiling behind the hood before speaking in a lighter tone,"It reminds me of a game." Greirat mused, still looking up to the Firekeeper whom regarded him fully now.

"A.. Game?" She asked softly, tilting her head just faintly.

"Oh, yes, a game of riddles and conundrums. I've heard many in my time- perhaps you'd have a gander, Firekeeper?"

"Very well, Thrall of the High Wall. Thy shall participate in thou game of riddles. Even if much is unbeknownst to thyself." She replied softly, which earned her a chuckle in turn.

"I am Greirat, of the Undead Settlement.. Ah- shall we begin? I've got a riddle for you..."

* * *

A cold breeze ran down the Dancer's back as she slowly crept through the stone arch that lead to the battered and overgrown station. Ahead, two doors sat anchored in place by hardened vines that held it within a vice grip. She supposed she could wrench them free, but..

 _She was not supposed to be here._

The thought almost made her halt in her steps as she glanced behind her from the center of the cracked stone floor- staring at the arch. The corpses of the Hollowed footmen that attempted to impede her progress lay lifeless and unmoving- reassuring the Dancer of her ability to adequately protect herself from minor threats. The Knights had proven a bit more difficult. A certain step above the common shambles that attempted to stab her with a half-hearted lung. After the first two were defeated, she found the weakness within their shields of which they held too close to their bodies. Kicking it fully in stumbled them, thus letting her pierce through the shriveled and wallowing heart within.

The Dancer then looked back towards the overgrowth that entrapped the doors leading towards the bridge she was directed to pass over. With renewed confidence, she strut upon the stage towards them. Examining these vines from up close, she noted that they were quite black- as if charred beyond color. She reached out a tentative gauntlet to feel their worth, but before she could make contact, a deep growl caused her to draw her hand back slowly. She slowly turned her head around to face the source of such guttural noises.

A swirling black vortex poured a miasma of despair and un-sustained rage through the chamber, vomiting an acidic black substance that stung the ground and sizzled where it touched. A massive, silver-clad head made its way past the widening void, followed by a massive body that dwarfed her ten times over. And that was saying something, considering the Dancer hunched at the height of nearly five feet and stood tall at around seven and a half. She hadn't been able to fully.. _Grasp_ the image of this beast that spilled into this world from another, until the vortex disappeared entirely- leaving its herald behind in this once native plane.

And then they hit her.

A pang of unbridled anger, hurt, and immense sadness. It made her chest collapse and her heart shrivel- only to swell and overflow with adrenaline at the moment's notice. She _knew_ this being, once upon a time. But where? _Where - why-_

The Irithyllian's thought was cut short as a loud screech past a bull-like silver helm reverberated around the room. The heavy thuds of the beast's crawling motion sounding like a repeated gong as the shift and clang of metal against metal rang through the air. The Great Hammer within its hands shimmered and distorted with a white vapor as if immensely cold. Cruel, harsh blue eyes burned out from the helm, the glow of them exiting through all the little slips and cracks within the thickened metal mask. It's body was massive- bigger than Iudex Gundyr, for sure. And probably more dangerous.

 _Beware, the Vordt of the Boreal Valley._

The words spoken cryptically from the old priestess within the chapel rang through her head and made it past the veil of destructive emotions.

 _The Boreal Valley. The Boreal Valley. The Valley. Home.. What about home? What Valley? What does-_

The Dancer dove to the left just in time with a soft gasp of breath- the Mace slamming into the stone ground, sending particles of stone and dust spewing from the impact. The Vordt dived over the large crater- slamming down his weapon once more with a deep grunt in doing so. This attack was much more easily dodged- the Dancer taking a long step back before lurching forward. She stepped atop the cold weapon- frost chilling her boots and creeping its way to bite and gnaw at her flesh and bone. She ran along its massive hilt before leaping with both swords poised above her head to stab down into the exposed joint between the helm and curiass of the defiled beast.

It gave a shattering roar as black ichor burst from one jab- the other ending up bouncing off the armor in a misplaced strike. The Dancer raised the failed blade to strike again- but gave a sharp breath as the Vordt unexpectedly charged straight into the red iron doors behind them headfirst; the Dancer being sent flying from his back as she slammed against the doors. The air burst from her legs at the impact against the blackened vines and hard metal, her form clattering to the ground in a winded heap. The Irithyllian crawled on her hands and knees for a moment, struggling to breath as the Vordt grabbed her in one massive gauntlet- crushing down on her torso with strength.

Multiple thumps against her armor were heard alongside snaps as her ribs broke like the most brittle wood. Pain shot through her entire body and surged up into her mind. She let out a light rasp as her legs kicked to no avail. The massive beast gave a loud roar as if pleased by the rush of blood that poured out from behind the veil and visor of the Dancer's helmet- wet, choking sounds heard before he reared back his arm- throwing her into the left wall of stone with such force it dented her already mishandled armor. She lay still for a few more moments- bleeding from multiple places. And yet, she did not die.

 _Sharp. Impaled. Bleeding. Need help. No help. Incoming. Roll!_

The Vordt screeched in anger as his hammer hit the area of which the Dancer had been- the lithe being rolling just in time to avoid the worst of the blow.

 _Gods- gods? Gods. Light. Fire. The Flame. The_ flame.

The Dancer gave a low, sighing, whimper- hand reaching past the bloodied silk of her lower pauldrons. She grasped the strange, burning, stone before she looked at it whilst she curled up slowly. She watched it burn with an warm beauty as the Vordt stomped close in what was the most languid pace possible. She felt the call, the Bell and heard it's Knell. The Irithyllian crushed it within her hand slowly- watching as the flame trapped within burst from it and cascaded down into her hand before enveloping her palm. She held her hand in a fist- letting it course liquid fire throughout her being, boiling her blood as it worked its way up to her head. She felt the pain ebb into a dull thrum, a mere fiddle to the vast symphony that blazed through her thoughts; which soon took to the burning rage that she was once familiar with.

The Vordt was, in all sense, confused. He watched as the silver maiden grew before him against the wall. She slowly managed to gain her stance- her armor lighting up with the occasional flash of fire as the veil that shimmered behind her seemed as if it were in an eternal burning. She grew and she grew, and she stood so tall he backed away once in both immense rage and the faintest slight of fear. Her weapons were long lost- the small blades too small and meager to fit in her hands. She then hunched over and gave a small giggle- her true voice sounding both beautiful and terrible; ethereal. The giggle soon turned into maniac laughter as she began to circle the Vordt- body still, despite the fact that it should have shook with such raucous laughter.

The Vordt of the Boreal Valley suddenly slammed the crown of his mace down into the ground before him- looking up at the Dancer as he gave a booming roar that would have shaken the very stone they stood upon. It was long, conveying emotions of hate. Her laugh died off almost immediately as silence developed between them before she hunched even lower- arms raised slightly as her elongated neck swiveled slowly to face him. He heard but a low hum until it started to grow into a siren's screech- a scream unlike any other, backed by constant echoes of extreme malice.

His, vicious. Her's _terrifying._

He lunged at her, mace swinging in a horizontal arc towards her. She took the entire swing, staggering to the side as she dropped to the ground under the weight of such a weapon. He gave a small screech as he refused to relent- swinging it downwards in an attempt to crush the silver helm with the force of Gods. The Dancer rolled to the side as she had done many times previous, curling up her body before spinning into a hunched position once more. Whilst he lifted his weapon from the ground, the Dancer took one long strife towards him- before bringing her knee into the side of his helm harshly, the pound of metal against metal reverberating throughout the chamber. He gave a small snarl- head snapping to the side at impact. She grasped onto the seem of his helmet- which, had melded closely with his skin. In blind anger she dragged him forward with three long steps- ramming his head into the wall as stone chunks crashed over his head.

Disoriented, the Vordt tugged at his weapon in vain attempt to ward off the lithe Dancer; only to have his head slam into the already battered wall once more. He gave a deep rumble as he staggered, before swinging his head to the side- knocking the Dancer to a knee as he collided with one of her legs. She let go of his helm and made to move out of his way- but at a moment too late as he charged ahead like a blazing bull. Bent over his massive head as he rushed along, her boots scraped and squealed against the ground before she was slammed into a wall with force. Giving a deep gasp as the Vordt backed up and attempted to shake his head free of dizziness, the Dancer scrambled onto her knees before rising just in time to strafe past another swing from the Great Hammer he clutched so dearly.

With a faint grunt and a low growl, the Dancer of the Boreal Valley stomped on the handle of the Hammer- pinning it to the ground as she delivered an overhead strike onto the Vordt's skull with a clenched fist. He tried to lift the weapon once more as the Dancer suddenly thrust her thumbs into the blazing blue eyes of his morbid helm. He gave a loud screech of tortured pain, releasing the handle of his weapon; thrashing madly about as the ridges of his visor began to glow slightly with blue. The Dancer released him only to have frost coat her armor and veil- engulfed in a blizzard that spewed from beneath the vile mask. It slowed her movements as she gave a sharp gasp, attempting to strafe away from the frigid blizzard.

She could feel her blood freezing into ice- clotting her veins and sending her mind into a frenzy. In a desperate, last effort, the Dancer took two strides towards the Vordt before standing tall. She managed to escape the blizzard by standing over his head- blood beginning to warm almost immediately and heat as adrenaline coursed through her brain. She could almost see the red clouding her vision as she dropped upon the Vordt- pinning his torso down with the weight of her entire form. Despite such, he still moved slightly- her weight not near as strong as his strength. He begun to lift her up, but it did not matter. He stopped moving for a split moment as her arm wrapped around his jaw and under his chin. Her other, wrapped around the top of his head. They both paused in the seconds pause as nothing but the faint whisp of wind was heard. And then, the Vordt heard it. A short huff before a deep intake of breath- the smallest of laughs following in the breathing. His last instinct was only the blind rage the ring on his massive, gnarled finger never let him see past.

The Dancer of the Boreal Valley then pulled and twisted with all of her might- the Vordt roaring so loudly it rumbled the candelabra within the Grand Archives so far above the High Wall. It cut off with a sickening crack and a small tearing rip- black ichor pouring out from the joint of his head and torso before it sounded out in full. The Dancer tore his very head from his massive shoulders- tossing it aside as she felt his body collapse into the ground beneath her. After a few moments it burst into a cloud of ash- the smell invading her senses and clouding her vision. It was, almost calming. Almost. She slowly began to shrink back to normal size once more- such ash beginning to delude and smother the ember that burned within her until it was no more than a dull whisper than it had been. She sank to her knees in exhaustion.. And unknowingly, despair.

Before her, however, floated a strange sight. An impossibly slow, burning, essence lowered down to the ground from above. The Dancer held out her hands quickly as if she were afraid it would spread into nothingness if it desecrated itself upon the ground. It felt warm to her hands. It livened her. It spoke to her. It was familiar. She slowly brought it close to her heart on instinct- wanting to feel this warmth throughout her whole being. It cast a soft, orange, glow upon her silver armor- the blue veil refracting this glow faintly as the short breeze flew through the creaking red doors at the end of the chamber. She didn't notice them begin to groan, crack, and part themselves. She had eyes only for the Soul in her cupped gauntlets.

The Dancer closed her hands slowly- encasing the essence within her palms as it slowly began to spread among her wrists and then burned through her arms to the core of her _own_ soul. Binding. Her eyes slowly shut as she allowed it to become an extension of herself. And, in turn.. It allowed her to view the scenes that never should have been.


End file.
